to write a poem about
your father would be
to assume that the words
i would put down could
change some part of the
fundamental stages of
life or the cold, hard
fact that someone has
disappeared from your life
in the way that you under
stood it and understand
it currently at this very
moment.

this is more
like an anti-poem,
because it is raining today
and your father is dead.

i am sitting in a chair,
thinking idly about what
it would feel like if my
father died,
the way yours did.
a black hole is eating all
of the words that could
be used to describe it.

and when i picture you, or
me,
or anyone, for that matter,
in old reel footage of a sunny
day with the sprinklers in the
lawn and propelling down a slip-
‘n-
slide
with your father there,
safely,
keeping everything safe and warm,
this black hole grows larger.
the words start spiraling towards
the floor.

i fear if i do not stop thinking
about this now it will most likely
swallow me alive like it is
trying to do to you and your entire
family at this very second, jeff.
you must struggle against that tide
and i will help you with any hand
that is possible to give even if
“i’m sorry for your loss” is the
only
dead
replacement
for “grab my hand.”